Archive for November, 2012

I think we can all agree that mucousy congestion is a nasty thing. Sure it is. So can we please dispense with all those yucky little anthropomorphized phlegmoids on those Mucinex commercials? I mean, I thought that Lamisil fungus guy living under the toenail was bad enough, but the Brooklyn-bred snot goblins that permeate these ads are completely grossing me out. And that’s saying a lot ‘cuz I’ve worked in veterinary kennels around extremely sick animals.

I saw a recent online poll where 1 in 5 respondents admitted that they believed the so-called Mayan Apocalypse was real. That means, 20% of those people believe the world will end in less than a month.

On the bright side, that’s a lower number than the folks who believe ghosts are real … or that Obama is a Muslim. Still, by all counts, an epic fail on our part in the effective dissemination of accurate information.

Huh. 1 on 5, eh? Tsk. A Mayan Apocalypse is too good for those yokels if ya ask me.

Maybe I’m just spending way too much time watching Boomerang but I think Ranger Smith should’ve used aversion therapy on Yogi Bear like they did to Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange. Then we’d have no more incidents like the time Yogi and Boo Boo stole the pic-a-nic baskets and savaged that couple while crooning Singin’ in the Rain. And that, my brothers, is true ultra-violence to send a nice, warm, vibraty feeling all through your guttiwuts.

For some reason I have no recollection of my 24th birthday. It’s not like I was drunk and forgot. I just have no memory of it. No celebrations, no parties, no cards, nothing. I think I may have accidentally skipped it. Which would technically make me a year younger, I think. And that’s a plus.

I was watching Gumby on the Cartoon Network a while back and I saw something that, to be honest, shocked me.

Gumby’s sister needed to take a bath. So, she went and got in the tub as she was. See, she didn’t take off her clothes because she wasn’t wearing any. She just hopped right on in.

Which means: she never wears clothes. None of them do. All of the Gumby family walk around totally starkers! Naked! Nude! Just as their God molded them, their clay bodies exposed for all the world to see.

Not that Gumby, Pokey or any of their pals are, shall we say, anatomically-correct, shamelessly displaying clay privates with the audacity of a drunken coed on one of those spring break videos. No, these earthen amigos are as smooth and nondescript as a Ken doll, even less so.

But there’s a principle here. Why call attention to the Gumby clan’s nakedness by depicting the sister in a bathtub, even if it was an integral part of the story? Pure prurient interest, if you ask me! Pure lewdness! Pure insatiable lust!

Hey, cousin Delmont, I’m really happy that you took those classes at the agricultural extension and all but if I have to sit through another lecture on the botanical differences between yams and sweet potatoes I will quite possibly insert a turducken carcass into one of your most inconvenient cavities, so keep it light, pass the mashed potatoes and shut the bloody hell up!

As we move headfirst into the holiday season and you prepare to gorge yourself on stuffing and turducken, let us take a moment to think of those less fortunate than ourselves. Like the cast of Animal Practice, General David Petraeus, Walmart employees, LA Galaxy fans, John McAfee, Twinkie eaters, people who wear horizontal stripes, animals used in filming The Hobbit, ferret owners, anyone who paid money to see That’s My Boy, and the parents of Amanda Bynes.

Anyhow, the point is … well, there really isn’t a point. Need and desperation and misfortune come in all shapes and sizes, no matter who you are. One man’s Thanksgiving is another man’s thanks-for-giving-us-the-shaft-and-taking-our-land. It all depends on which side of the meal you’re on. I mean, basically, no amount of cranberry sauce, stuffing, bowl games, parades or cheesy holiday specials can make it a nifty keen day for the turkey, right?

So eat hearty, my friends! Give thanks where appropriate. Enjoy yourselves. But don’t get too full of yourself `cuz, hey, this ain’t a very special episode of Blossom or anything.

Why: The simple principle that if you are going to permanently scar your body without the understanding that there are long-term consequences to doing so then you are an imbecile deserving of the mockery that will no doubt come your way. I mean, if a corporation is willing pay you a grand to emblazon its brand on your neck or a radio station wants to give you One Direction tickets to etch its logo on your forehead, your first, last and ultimate instinct shouldn’t be “yes” or even “I’ll think it over” but “are you kidding me? I’m neither gullible nor brain-dead enough to turn myself into a human billboard for your ridiculous promotional purposes.”

How I justify it: This douchebag…

That Romney/Ryan tat is looking pretty pointless and preposterous right about now. (Of course, the same could have been said for the regretful ink before the election, too.)